


Studies in Orlesian Wardens

by pedanticsoothsayer



Category: Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Character Study, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-08
Updated: 2015-05-07
Packaged: 2018-03-29 13:23:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3897910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pedanticsoothsayer/pseuds/pedanticsoothsayer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some character drabbles to characterize my made-for-Awakening Wardens</p>
            </blockquote>





	Studies in Orlesian Wardens

Tarin does not correct them when the people in Amaranthine’s streets call her Orlesian. In a way, they are not wrong. She has lived there for many years, as the acquired soft rolls of her r’s and the nasality of her i’s would suggest. It is far preferable that they believe her to be Orlesian, for the alternative would be much worse. In her eyes, it is obvious. She does not mourn the disappearances of her so-called countrymen. Yes, they were her brothers-at-arms but they were just as quick to taunt the Vint as they were to block her from darkspawn blades while she cast. Only the loss of her Roya would make her weep, but she was safely posted outside of Val Chevin, on Warden-Commander Fontaine’s orders.

The title is still strange on her tongue. Warden-Commander Andras. Or perhaps Warden-Commander Tarin; the people of this country, she found, were quick to use personal names. Even quicker to hate their former occupiers. The Ferelden’s hate is not without reason. Barely two-decades on their own was still not enough to quell their resentment. Tell that to the elves, she had said. Fontaine had frowned. Roya had laughed.

Her instructions had been very clear: behave. Neither country needed a war, much less one started by the tiny elf, mage Warden form Tevinter. How strange, she mused, to escape so far South and still be defined by her place. So she smirks when they ask her what her favorite cheese is or how many Bards she’s slept with (only two that she knows of, she insists) and most of them are fine with that, too bitter about wars their fathers fought in to look past her accent. And she does agree they have a right to be bitter, just take it up with the Empress, not the Wardens.

She does not know, or care, which of them notices it first; the blond man with the penchant for feathers and snark can tell she has not set foot in a Circle nor spent a day as an apostate, while the brooding man who is quick with a bow and quicker with his wit met many and knows she does not walk like the other Orlesians. They say nothing and the rest of her merry party are too naive to notice or care. But they are content, knowing so little of Games and Magisters, of slaves and masks. And she is content, pulling up her gloves as she steps out of Vigil’s Keep so that they cannot see the marks of her servitude.


End file.
